


Occupational Hazards

by pikachumaniac



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because like it or not, there was the undeniable truth: Q made one spectacularly ugly woman.</p>
<p>In which Q goes undercover and Bond despairs for the death of his reputation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupational Hazards

**Author's Note:**

> There cannot be enough thanks to pinkangelsakura, who did her best to get me to stop writing the angst to write this one instead by providing brilliant, crack-filled ideas that I just had to explore. Thank you so very much (even if you keep insisting that I’m incapable of writing crack!fic).
> 
> This is the first _Skyfall_ story I started, although it got lost in the shuffle when I got wrapped up in the angst fic-that-shall-not-be-named. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view), the angst fic has reached a point where I needed to balance it with something lighter, hence finally finishing this story.

James Bond is in the middle of a lively party, enjoying the attentions of a gorgeous, curvy blonde when he catches sight of a familiar figure and his breath stops short. Despite himself, his eyes trail up the slit of a glittery, dark blue dress that not only reveals but accentuates the creamy white skin of the wearer’s leg. The fabric cinches at the chest, fastened by an ornate brooch located right at the cleavage. Then there’s more pale skin, clavicles just a little too visible and the long line of a neck that is surrounded by tousled dark locks which flow well past the shoulders.

But then he sees the face, and it takes everything in him not to grimace. Because like it or not, there was the undeniable truth.

Q made one spectacularly ugly woman.

* * *

It is obvious from Q’s expression that Bond is not the only one aware of this fact. Even though Q appears serene, as if this is any other pre-mission meeting where he’s handing Bond equipment while wearing distressingly unfashionable but decidedly _male_ clothing, Bond has broken enough of said equipment to know that Q is possibly sulking and definitely planning a murder or two.

This does absolutely nothing to improve his looks.

To Q’s credit, he doesn’t stumble once as he makes his way towards Bond, despite balancing rather precariously on two-inch stiletto heels. Bond does scowl at this, partly at the thought of how much practice it must have taken the quartermaster to walk so well in heels but mostly at the fact that in those heels, Q is _taller_ than him. In fact – and despite Q’s impressive poise – the closer Q gets, the more painfully obvious it becomes how ill-suited Q is for this particular kind of undercover work.

(Even through his horror, however, Bond cannot help but notice that although someone has applied copious amounts of makeup to Q’s face, his lips are so naturally red that his personal makeover artist had apparently foregone the lipstick as unnecessary.)

Bond is baffled by this entire situation, to say the least. He isn’t sure whose idea this was, but he expects that the bastards are having a good laugh about it – a temporary enjoyment, since he plans on shooting them with his (not yet lost) Walther PPK and then standing by and laughing as Q infects all of their electronic devices with viruses designed for the sole purpose of making their lives a living hell.

His grip tightens on the lovely blonde as if he is clinging to life itself, but she is too happily whispering delicious flirtations into his ear to notice anything around her, including the other… woman coming towards them. He wants to run, preferably with the blonde in tow, but is frozen there by both duty and sheer terror when Q stops in front of him and says in what is likely supposed to be a low purr but ends up more as a snarled, “ _Darling_ , I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Silence. He wants to weep as the drop dead gorgeous, curvy blonde _who is now detaching herself from his arm_ scowls at him, repeating angrily, “Darling?”

“I just can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?” It seems like Q is trying to titter, but the sound he is making seems more akin to choking on rising bile.  Bond can relate as the blonde huffs and stalks off, immediately attaching herself to another man, who looks absolutely dumbfounded by his sudden good fortune.  Bond rather knows the feeling, although instead of getting the attentions of a beautiful woman, he finds himself faced with a furious Q, his very recently manicured fingers digging into the sleeve of Bond’s tuxedo like devil claws. “You forgot to bring your watch, you silly thing.”

Bond quickly grabs the proffered item, doing a quick scan of the room to confirm that no one is eavesdropping before immediately demanding, “What are you doing? Where’s Moneypenny?”

Q keeps a carefully bland smile on his face. “Food poisoning.”

Bond doesn’t believe it for a second. “Last I heard, you wouldn’t stop fussing about how this concerned national security of the highest order, and now you’re telling me that M didn’t send Moneypenny because of a case of _food poisoning_?”

“For some strange reason, M didn’t think it would do your reputation any favors if your date vomited all over you.”

He quirks an eyebrow at this statement as he asks with absolutely no sarcasm whatsoever, “And exactly what did M think _this_ is going to do to my reputation?”

Q’s eyes narrow. “And what do you mean by ‘this,’ pray tell?”

“You. In a dress.” He says this slowly because Q is obviously brain damaged if he hasn’t already figured out why Bond is not exactly thrilled about this situation. Or perhaps the quartermaster is himself in such shock that he is having problems processing the most basic of information.

“You’re worried about your reputation when _I’m_ the one in the dress,” Q replies with only a touch of incredulity and the barest hint of deadly intent to strangle the next person suicidal enough to comment on his appearance. As that person is more likely than not Bond, who still cannot believe that M hates him enough to be doing this to him, Bond reluctantly decides that for the sake of his own well-being he should return to the point at hand.

“What are you doing here anyway? Last I checked, we were getting memos about MI6’s dedication to diversity in the workforce. Surely there has to be some other female agent who could look presentable.”

Q looks like he has many things to say about that (and many new orifices to tear into Bond’s body), but he settles for replying through gritted teeth, “Food poisoning.”

“What, all of them?”

“Something about a bachelorette party with bad shrimp. From what I understand, the last few hours have not been pleasant and—look, I cannot make this shit up, you know,” Q snaps at Bond’s look of blatant disbelief. “It’s not like I _want_ to be here, but it took me a week to train Moneypenny in this tech. I couldn’t exactly just hand it over to anyone.”

This sounds like a piss poor excuse, even though he knows that Q has an attachment to his gadgets that is borderline obsessive and positively disturbing. “You’ve never had a problem with it before,” he points out, as he knows that Q can eventually be persuaded to hand over the tech, if by “persuasion” one means being ordered to do so at gunpoint by Eve. Q had pouted about that one for _weeks_. “What’s so different about this one? Don’t you just point and shoot in the right direction?”

“And this is precisely why you are never getting any of the good equipment,” Q huffs. If he thought to humble Bond, he has miscalculated; this just makes Bond wonder exactly what the “good equipment” is and if he can a) steal it and b) use it before Q catches on and disables it remotely. “No wonder the last Q had nightmares about you and decided to take an early retirement to escape the stress of your existence. You never bother to understand how to use it properly, just abuse it until it breaks, and then you wonder plaintively why I won’t give you an exploding pen.”

Bond is still stuck on the fact that Q has apparently been holding out on him. “What exactly is the good equipment?” Visions of jet packs and grenade launchers dance before his eyes, making Q look much lovelier for just a moment.

That moment immediately expires a violent, shrieking death when Q replies primly, “You’ll find out on 004’s next mission. There is no way I am ever letting your destructive tendencies get near my more impressive pieces.”

Bond glowers at him. “So are you telling me that Tom Cruise gets explosive chewing gum and I get nothing when I’m off pulling triggers for you in the name of Queen and country?”

Q blinks, giving him an odd look. “Tom Cruise? What does he have to do with anything?”

Bond stares at him in disbelief. When Q continues to fail to comprehend, he finally asks, “Mission Impossible?”

“Oh, that. No, I’ve never watched it,” Q says with a dismissive wave. “Unlike some people, I have to spend all of my time begging the government bureaucrats for funding to replace all of the actually useful and realistic gadgets that certain unnamed agents keep breaking. One would think that childproofing a valuable piece of technology would ensure its safe return, and yet those unnamed agents keep doing stupid things. Like dropping it into a volcano. How, exactly, does one just ‘drop’ something into a volcano? Are the volcanos stalking them? Do agents just _enjoy_ skydiving into lava? Or is it some type of hazing ritual?”

Bond thinks that Q is overreacting, especially since the volcano thing has only happened twice, but Q is obviously not interested in his opinions as the quartermaster starts his painfully familiar rant about all of the ways Bond has broken his precious tech. As Bond gets a variation of this lecture at least three times a week, he can’t be blamed for letting his attention wander straight towards a red-headed beauty who is watching him with interest. As that is certainly more promising than listening to Q whine at him, he straightens, targeting her with his trademark sexy agent smile, which of courses her to blush prettily and duck her head. He raises a glass in invitation, silently congratulating himself when she immediately started towards him … only to pause when she catches a look at Q, who is still raging at him.

That one look is enough. Just as quickly as she had started towards him, she blanches and stumbles backwards, crashing into a waiter bearing a punch bowl.

It would have been hilarious if it was happening to anyone else.

“Bond, are you listening to me?” Q suddenly demands, snapped out of his tirade by the commotion as the woman babbles apologies at the now drenched waiter. He follows Bond’s longing stare, and unfortunately for Bond the quartermaster isn’t as stupid or socially dense as he ought to be because he immediately realizes what is on Bond’s mind. He scowls, his fingers clenching much tighter than Bond would have thought possible for an anorexic computer geek who wouldn’t know a treadmill if it was dropped on his greasy head. “I hate to be a downer, but we _do_ have a mission to complete.”

“Don’t lie, you like being a downer,” Bond replies with just a touch of bitterness. “Why else would you be dressed like that? Speaking of, explain to me again why you couldn’t dress as a man?”

“007, please look at my chest and tell me what you see.”

“I would rather not, thank you.” Bond has been making it a point to stare at Q’s right ear, or at least where it would have been if it wasn’t covered by thick locks of hair. The dark hair also obscures the fact that the earrings Q is wearing are definitely clip-ons, if anyone got close enough to look.

Not that anyone would.

“It’s a brooch. A large, sparkly brooch that would look rather out of place on a man, do you not agree?” Q continues with exaggerated patience, pointedly ignoring Bond’s comment.

“And why if your fantastically complicated tech in a large sparkly brooch?” Bond asks, even as he vaguely recalls Q explaining all of this a few days back. Something about a very powerful – but also very large – hacking device, disguised as an elaborate piece of jewelry, which is supposed to download the data it obtained into Bond’s watch. At the time, it had seemed stupidly complex (and now it just seems plain stupid), but they wanted to get the information without the target getting tipped off and deleting everything. Bond had gone along with it because Eve was supposed to be the one on his arm, not a certain quartermaster who still had spots and an obviously boyish face even when it was caked with layers of make-up and accompanied by fake but oddly perky breasts.

“Alright, alright,” he says, cutting Q off mid-explanation and earning a nasty look in response. “The mission parameters are the same, yes? 006 isn’t going to suddenly come wandering in as a mime?”

“It would improve his personality,” Q mutters, but he quickly composes himself. “The mission is the same. We find the target, use the device to hack into his computer and find out what and when his next attack is. And we will do this with minimal shooting, exploding, freefalling, knifing, hitting, carjacking, airplane jacking, or flirting. Actually, no flirting. _At all_.”

Bond can feel, actually physically _feel_ , his reputation withering up into nothing, but all he can do now is smile, offer Q his arm, and memorize the faces of anyone witnessing his current disgrace so he can hunt them down and assassinate the whole lot of them the next time he goes on leave. The smile he gives Q is usually reserved for the beautiful woman on his arm but because Q is neither a woman nor beautiful, his face is starting to spasm uncontrollably, “What shall I call you then, _dearest_?”

“Georgette will do.” Q looks like he isn’t sure if he wants to smirk or glare at the way Bond’s face spasms some more. “I’m sorry, were you hoping for something more low-key like Pussy Galore?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” he growls in order to cover up the thought that actually, yes. That _would_ be preferable.

* * *

The evening goes from merely disastrous to catastrophic.

If this was a fairytale, Bond would have just been the stubborn git who refused to accept how radiant Q actually was as a woman, until the jealousy caused by the flattery of other men opened his eyes to the perfection that was currently trying to cut off the blood circulation of his left arm. Then they would fall into each other’s arms, pronounce their undying love for each other to the cheers of the watching crowd, and unicorns would fly overhead with rainbows shooting out of their arses.

This is not a fairytale, and no one is delusional enough to believe that Q can pass for anything other than homely… unless, that is, they were approaching from the back. After all, even Bond could be forced to admit (under extreme torture) that the quartermaster has the appropriate body type for this disguise, especially with his elegant figure. So it wasn’t actually that surprising when an embarrassing number of men had approached them, intent on challenging Bond for the rights to the “lovely lady” on his arm.

Of course, they had all backed off immediately when Q turned to glare at them. It wasn’t the glare that made them back off.

Bond really, really hates his life right now. Death by humiliation isn’t an occupational hazard covered by the manuals, but it’s becoming a distinct possibility as he makes his way around the grand hall, Q clinging tightly to him as they search for their target.

As a general rule, Bond is not chatty on his missions. He is suave and smooth, the ideal gentleman. However, his missions usually do not involve the sullying of his reputation, so he finds himself saying for the hundred and fifty-sixth time, “This is demeaning.”

“So you keep saying,” Q mutters. Bond doesn’t think he has the right to sound so tired of complaining, seeing how Q spends all of his time complaining whenever Bond comes back from a mission without his equipment. Which is pretty much every time. One would think he would be used to it by now.

“Because it _is_ ,” he replies rebelliously, but not too loudly because Q’s nails _hurt_. He tries to get his mind back on the mission, but only manages to ask, “How will you know when you’ve got the information? Is it going to… beep or something?”

Q’s response is withering. “No, Bond, my fake breasts are not going to beep.”

Another pause.

“Look, do you really have to stay so close? Can’t you stand a little farther away?”

“No, I cannot stand farther away.” Q sounds slightly exasperated and just a touch homicidal. “As you would know if you bothered to listen, these two pieces have a very, very short range and need to be close together if they are to work properly.”

“Well that’s bloody stupid,” he replies bluntly. “Who the hell designed this?”

“ _I did_.”

Bond sighs; Q’s tone leaves no doubt that he will never be getting his hands on the good tech. In fact, considering the look Q is giving him, he’ll be lucky to get anything more complex than a used tissue paper for his next mission, which will make survival a little harder than normal. But that’s nothing new, when it comes to the life of a secret agent.

But since he is already on Q’s bad side, he feels free to go back to his grousing as a couple coming towards them takes one look at Q, blanches, and suddenly finds it necessary to head in the opposite direction. “I’m James Bond,” he complains. “I have _standards_.”

“Yes, yes, we all know you’re god’s gift to super spies, but right now we have a job to do and I want to _get out of this goddamn dress_.”

“No one is ever going to take me seriously again,” Bond continues to grumble, but he’s cut off when Q suddenly grabs him by the throat (he was probably aiming for Bond’s tie, but it’s hard to tell if Q’s current act of strangulation is accidental or on purpose. Bond is leaning towards the latter), pulling him close as they stumble into a less busy corner of the hall.

There are other couples here, all appropriately engrossed with each other, so they don’t look out of place. He can feel Q’s breath on his cheek, but he has a feeling Q isn’t going to be whispering sweet nothings into his ear. However, what Q does have to say is so much sexier. “Isn’t that our target over there?”

Bond smiles as he follows Q’s glance. If he can’t have a beautiful woman on his arm, the prospect of killing is a perfectly acceptable alternative.

That is, until Q crushes all of his hopes and dreams by prudishly reminding him, “This is an information gathering mission only, 007.”

“For now,” he corrects.

“For _ever_ ,” Q hisses back. “M clearly said-”

“M knows that missions don’t always go according to plan. Sometimes improvisation is needed.”

The grip on his throat tightens. “Oh, is that your justification for hurling my tech into oncoming traffic?”

He sighs, keeping a pleasant smile on his face as he gently but firmly removes Q’s fingers from his throat. “Sometimes, _dearest_ , you make me wonder who you love more, me or the tech.”

Q gives him a loving smile, even as his eyes promise to rain down death and destruction. “The tech, most definitely.” Q leans in closer and whispers, “It’s less messy.”

Bond decides this may not be the best time to remind Q of the time that one of the man’s tinkerings in R&D had exploded, covering everyone in a thirty-foot radius with odd-smelling goo and taking out Q’s eyebrows as a bonus. Instead, he takes a lock of Q’s (wig’s) hair and kisses it, the very image of an enamored lover as he keeps one eye on their target. He frowns ever so slightly as he realizes their target is giving him an odd look, almost as if… as if he recognizes him. _Shit_.

“I think we might have been made,” he murmurs into Q’s hair.

Q doesn’t turn to look, instead letting out a laugh, as if Bond has said something positively delightful. “Why would you say something like that, silly thing?”

“He’s moving.” Their target has turned and is heading for the doors leading to the inner rooms, which is of course supervised by burly security guards. Bond has been watching those doors all night, noting that the guards aren’t actually trying to keep people out. Many a couple had passed through there, obviously in search of more… intimate settings to conduct their romancing in. But guards were guards, and they had stopped more than a few persons from going through, especially when it came to individuals. Even when said individuals were obviously drunk and just looking for a private place to be sick, the guards had been adamantly keeping all individuals out. Their target being the exception, of course.

He casts a look at Q, who is trying to look calm even though there is a hint of worry in his eyes. Despite their bickering this is still a mission that concerns, as Q has reminded him over and over again, national security of the highest order. They need that information, or barring that (and despite the quartermaster’s protests) they need to stop their target. Otherwise, things will explode and people will die, and while that was just an ordinary day in 007’s life, he still had a vested interest in preventing it from happening in the first place.

So without a word, he starts tugging Q towards those inner rooms. Q stumbles ever so slightly, obviously not expecting this latest round of improvisation, and he asks quietly, “What are you doing?”

“Following him.”

“You think he recognizes you and now you want to follow him?” Q demands, his unspoken question of ‘Are you completely and utterly _mad_?’ hanging between them. Bond knows why he doesn’t bother asking; they both know the answer to that one is an unqualified _yes_.

“Follow my lead,” he whispers and before he can give it a second though (because if he does he will never be able to follow through), puts his hand on Q’s arse and squeezes.

Q immediately turns a brilliant shade of pink that can be seen even though the layers of make-up, one hand instinctively rising to punch him. But Q isn’t one of MI6’s top intelligence personnel for nothing, even if he has no practical experience in the field, and instead of a sudden sharp pain Bond feels the hand rest on his cheek. He can’t help but think that Q really didn’t have to dig in his nails like that.

Bond hears a slight snigger to his left, and resists the urge to take out his gun and shoot the voice or himself. Instead, he forces himself to play along and purr, “Dearest, shall we take this somewhere more private?”

Q is still very pink, but manages to say without choking on his own vomit, “Oh darling, I thought you would never ask.”

* * *

Like their target, the guard gives him the strangest look as they walk by, as if he is trying to place him. Bond’s grip on Q tightens, but he ignores the quartermaster’s muffled squeak as he gives the guard a conspiratorial smile that leaves no doubts what his “intentions” are. Still, just in case, he is starting to calculate how much of a commotion it will cause to shoot the man when the guard’s eyes fall on Q. The guard blinks, all of the tension in his posture suddenly flowing out as he shakes his head and wordlessly lets them through, apparently no longer suspicious of the “couple” walking past.

The halls are empty, although he can hear the chatter (and… other things) of real couples in the rooms. As soon as they are out of the guard’s range, he unhands Q and pulls out his gun, causing Q to groan in apparent disbelief. “Must you?”

“That was too easy,” he replies simply, not voicing the fact that he just really, _really_ wants to shoot somebody now. He covers for that sentiment by pointing out, “The guard seemed suspicious of us, and yet he still let us in. Why would he do that?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, setting out down the hall. That doesn’t stop Q from hissing, “Bond, get _back_ here. I told you this is supposed to be a reconnaissance mission only, and I refuse to allow you to screw this up with your usual pigheaded need to cause mayhem and— _Bond_!”

As usual, Bond has stopped listening, having become very good at tuning Q out. That aside, he can’t shake the feeling that something is not right, and he thinks that he might not be the only one because while Q is following him, he is no longer griping. In fact, he can feel the tension radiating from the other man, and he smiles slightly. Q might be an absolute pain, but he’s an intelligent one. “Any way we can figure out which room he is in?”

“If we can get near his computer, the device should alert us,” Q replies, dropping all pretense of sounding like a woman. Instead, he is back to being that arrogant ( _familiar_ ), wisp of a boy who had led him through train tunnels, crowded marketplaces, and warehouses filled with men trying to shoot him, all business-like and _pleased_ to be using his brain to help Bond escape what should have been inevitable termination. “And considering what he has planned, there is more than a decent possibility that he will be there too.”

“An alert,” he repeats. “What kind of an alert?”

Q doesn’t even have the chance to answer as the brooch start to beep. They both stare down at it.

“Well, what do you know?” Bond quirks an eyebrow and trying very, very hard not to laugh. “Your fake breasts do beep.”

“They’re not beeping,” Q snaps, his face scarlet. “It’s just the alert.”

“Sounds like beeping to me.”

“Just… just go in there and shoot someone, will you?” Q sighs, self-consciously folding his arms over his chest. And fake breasts.

“I thought you didn’t want me to shoot anyone.” Bond reminds him, smiling slightly.

“If it’ll make you leave me alone, you can blow up the place for all I care.”

For once, Bond is all too happy to comply. “It will be my pleasure, dearest,” he smirks before he turns to the door and kicks it open. Behind him, Q rolls his eyes, but that’s not his concern as the men in the room shout in both anger and surprise. He shoots two of them before they are even out of their chairs, slams an elbow into the face of a third with a satisfying crunch of bone, and soon finds himself standing over their target with a gun pointed down.

“Who the hell are you?!” the man shrieks, trying to stand and shaking miserably. Bond increases the pressure on the man’s chest, pinning him down easily.

“Bond,” he introduces coldly, before shooting the target in the head. “James Bond.”

* * *

The party guests are quickly ushered out as the rest of the target’s security team is herded up with little fuss, as they have no reason to fight now that their meal ticket is gone. Bond is watching over a small group of them, which includes the two bodyguards he shot and the man with the broken face. He glares at them, tapping his gun against his leg as a subtle reminder for them to stay _quiet_ even though a few of them are starting to look bemused at Q’s loud and incessant raging.

“So basically,” Q says, unaware or uncaring that he is making a scene, “you are telling me that I am wearing this damned outfit for _nothing_.”

“No, what I’m telling you is that my reputation was irreparably tarnished _for nothing_ ,” he shoots back, tired of listening to Q’s complaining as if the quartermaster was the one who had been wronged.

Q looks ready to claw his eyes out with those perfectly manicured nails. “Again, 007, _who is the one in the dress right now?_ ”

“You don’t do fieldwork,” he replies bluntly. “ _I_ do. And now I have to go out there, risking my neck while you’re giving me orders from your bloody underground bunker, and thanks to you that is going to be even harder now that no one will ever take me seriously again!”

Despite this perfectly reasonable and undeniable point, Q looks completely unsympathetic as he replies sardonically, “Yes, we all know you are Bond bloody James Bond, you only advertise it everywhere you go. Honestly, I have no idea how you expect to go undercover when-”

“What are you talking about?” one of the men interrupts, although he immediately cowers back when the two whip around to glare at him for having the audacity to speak. “You really are James Bond?”

Bond frowns at him, not pleased by how… surprised the man sounds. “Of course I am. Who did you think I was?”

But the man is no longer paying attention to him, instead turning to his comrade, who Bond recognizes as the guard who had originally let them through, yelling, “How could you let him in, huh? How did you not recognize him when we even gave you his picture?!”

The guard looks panicked. “I thought he looked familiar but then I saw his companion, and there was no way he could be James Bond! The file said that James Bond is notorious for being a womanizer with impeccable taste! How could he have been James Bond when that ugly…” the guard trails off as Q practically starts to radiate hatred.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” Q asks in a dangerously sweet voice. Bond feels almost sorry for the poor bastard; once Q is through with him, he’ll have to live in a forest where the most technologically advanced item he has is a nail clipper.

“You look lovely, ma’am.”

Q gives him a long, considering look before lashing out, his stiletto heel making an oddly satisfying sound against the man’s groin.

“Remind me to never make you angry,” Bond murmurs.

“Too late for that,” Q grumbles.

* * *

“Q. 007.” Bond braces himself for M’s angry tirade. Q (and Bond had _never_ been so grateful to see someone wearing pants) just looks resigned to his fate, slumped in his chair as if hoping he can melt through the floor. “Well done, both of you.”

There is a long silence as Bond and Q stare at M, obviously trying to determine if he is being serious. Then they take another long moment to process if they are heading into very dangerous territory. Then they look at each other, each demanding that the other speak. Q eventually loses the silent war and asks in the tone one normally reserves for calming a slightly deranged bulldog, “Sir?”

“It wasn’t… quite what we were hoping for, but effective nevertheless.” M smiles at them, and all of Bond’s internal warnings start lighting up like it’s Christmas come early. “We only realized when it was too late that the entire mission had been compromised. They were onto you, had 007’s information and description already. And yet the two of you managed to get past their security. How did you do it?”

Again, silence as the two of them continue to stare and M continues to beam brightly at them. Bond is rather suspicious that M is fully aware that he is currently laying them in a deep grave, and is rather relishing burying them under layers of dirt.

“Well, flexibility is always key to a successful mission,” Bond finally manages to get out, shooting Q a look. Q looks a little like he wants to dispute that point, but after sneaking a glance at M’s wide smile, thinks better of it and settles for a quick nod and muttering something that sounds like a curse on all double-o agents.

“Yes, that is true,” M says a little too happily, and Bond is definitely sure now that the man is enjoying this conversation far too much. “Based on your results, it seems that the two of you work very well together in the field.”

“Sir?!” Q bursts out, openly panicking now. In contrast, Bond expresses his dismay with far more elegance – with a clench of the jaw and a hand starting to inch towards his gun. “Sir, I… he… but…!”

“In fact,” M continues, blithely oblivious to the fact that his quartermaster looks like he is going to pass out right then and there, “I will be making a recommendation that you two work together in the field more often in the future. Goodness knows we can use your fine results!”

Q makes a sound that is the unholy union between a strangled gasp and a high-pitched shriek, which M ignores as he dismisses the both of them with a shooing motion. Bond has to bodily lift Q to his feet and push the quartermaster out of the office, although he can’t stop Q from collapsing bonelessly to the floor as soon as the door closes.

Bond is pretty sure he is speaking for the both of them when he turns his eyes to the heavens and says, very bluntly, “Fuck.”

Q is too busy weeping to respond.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired/cheerfully and fully blamed on _Cloud Atlas_. Sorry, Ben, but that was really not your most flattering look.


End file.
